The Floor of Heaven (11 page)

As the bottle was being drained, Charlie shared his “story.” He was, he said, a Texas outlaw on the run and heading north. His hope was to meet up with some friends in Fort Douglas. He knew the Keeline Ranch lay over a small range of mountains some five miles to the east, but Charlie deliberately never asked about it. He just kept up with the Howards glass for glass. When the bottle was done, he said his good-byes, shook hands politely with the couple, and then rose to saddle his horse.

“How ’bout I buy you a glass?” asked Mr. Howard.

“I wouldn’t refuse,” said Charlie as he sat back down.

Then it was Charlie’s turn to reciprocate. They kept this up for a spell, the two men alternating treating the other to a round. Finally Charlie, starting to feel a little queasy, announced that he better be riding off. But first he bought a quart of whiskey. Charlie said it would keep him company on the trail, though he wound up taking a couple of quick swigs before he made it out the door.

It didn’t require much acting to demonstrate that getting on his horse under the circumstances was a complicated undertaking. Still, Charlie did his best to seem drunker than even he already was. He was listing like a boat in a storm, but he somehow managed to keep his seat in the saddle.

“You going to be all right?” the saloonkeeper asked his new friend.

“Soon as I run across my Texas boys, I’ll be fine,” said Charlie. All he had to do was ride on to Fort Douglas. Course, Douglas was a good fifty miles away. It would make things a mite easier, he suggested, if there were some Texans in this part of the country. Know any I might bunk with? asked Charlie, seemingly full of drunken innocence.

“There are several Texas fellers not far from here, but they’re in trouble,” Howard offered. “No use going there. They’ll kill you. The officers have been trying to get detectives in with them. There are fourteen or so and they all swear they’ll kill the next son o’ bitch that looks suspicious.”

Charlie wheeled his horse around. “If they’re from Texas,” he answered, “I’m not afraid of them. Just tell me where they are and I’ll take my chances on the killing part.”

In the distance, Howard pointed out a bridle path that twisted around a high peak. The outlaw camp was on the other side, near a clump of cottonwood timber. But, he warned again, “I wouldn’t go there.”

Charlie responded by burying his spurs in his horse’s flanks and whooping a cowboy yell. Then he galloped off through a thick grove of cottonwoods. There was no trail, and his horse had to jump fallen logs while at the same time Charlie was ducking to avoid tree limbs. It was quite a display of drunken cowboy recklessness—which, despite the whiskey that had his head swirling, was what Charlie had worked out he wanted the Howards to witness.

Riding off toward the mountain, he began thinking through the plan to break his leg—or at least giving the impression that he’d busted it. Charlie got his horse into a gallop as he followed the bridle trail cutting across the mountain that the saloonkeeper had indicated. He figured the outlaws would check his story and that there’d better be a flurry of fast-moving horse tracks. When the narrow trail curved sharply and there was no way a galloping horse, whether the rider was sober or drunk, could’ve kept his feet, Charlie dismounted. Then he shoved his horse over the rocky bluff.

Whining with surprise, the animal fell twenty feet. It landed on its side in the soft sand of the dry arroyo, just as Charlie had been aiming. It lay there with its wind knocked out, but after a few moments it jumped up to its feet. And Charlie was just as pleased to see that the impact had left a clear impression of the horse and saddle in the sand.

Now it was Charlie’s turn. After tying his horse, he climbed high up into the rocks and then jumped. He landed in the arroyo on his left side. Once again there was a distinct impression in the sand. As he led his horse by its bridle back up to the trail, he dragged his left leg across the sand; he wanted to make sure the boot and horseshoe prints would be easy to follow.

Once he was back on the rocky trail, Charlie went to work on his “crippled” left leg. He pulled off his left boot and ripped the seam of his pants leg nearly to his knee. He had a pair of woolen drawers on underneath and he rolled the left leg up above his knee, making sure that it was as tight as possible. This checked the flow of blood, and in only a minute or two his knee swelled and turned red. Satisfied, he gave his “crippled” knee a harsh rubbing with dry grass before, for good measure, pouring some of the whiskey from the bottle he had purchased over the damage. Then he tied his left boot to his saddle, mounted, and rode slowly toward a large grove of cottonwood timber on the Laramie River.

IT WAS open, flat land, and at the edge of the grove Charlie spotted a clutter of log houses. Smoke was swirling out of the chimneys and rising up into a gray evening sky heavy with snow clouds. Charlie couldn’t help thinking that if anyone had a mind to shoot, he’d be an easy target.

But no shots were fired. Instead, as Charlie got closer, one man emerged from the cabin and walked to the fence by the front gate. He leaned against it nice and casual, but all the time he kept his eyes locked on the approaching rider. Soon enough he was joined by about a dozen others. Charlie held the horse to a steady, slow pace and kept riding toward the cowboys. He reeled a bit in the saddle as though drunk, but at this point it was all acting. The long row of outlaws was a sight that had sobered him up in a flash.

When Charlie was about sixty yards from the gate, he drew rein as one of the cowboys stepped forward. He was a fine-looking six-footer, and apparently he was the boss; later Charlie would learn that this indeed was Tom Hall. “What the hell are you doing here?” he barked. At the same time Hall held up a hand signaling that Charlie had gone far enough.

“Broke my leg,” Charlie explained somewhat plaintively. “I could sure use some help.”

Curious, the whole gang rushed forward and gathered round him. The next thing Charlie knew, arms were gingerly lifting him off his horse, while Hall, his voice full of concern, was asking how it had happened. They carried Charlie into the main house and seated him in front of a log blazing in a large stone fireplace. The light lit up the room, and in the glow Charlie couldn’t help noticing that each of his saviors wore a pistol on his hip.

They were suspicious. Soon as Charlie was seated, Hall crouched down to examine the damage. The tightly rolled-up long johns were keeping Charlie’s knee swollen, and in the glowing firelight Hall also noticed the long scar a large-caliber bullet had traced across Charlie’s knee years earlier. When Hall asked about it, Charlie truthfully told him, “You should’ve seen what happened to the shooter.” That brought a small, approving smile to Hall’s face.

Nevertheless, with a great concentration the outlaw continued probing and pressing Charlie’s knee. He asked Charlie to wiggle his toes, and Charlie obeyed. After all, the last thing he wanted was for them to take him to a doctor. There was some more energetic pressing of the leg muscle, along with a good deal of bending and twisting of Charlie’s knee, and in the end Hall finally came around to deciding that nothing was broken. The leg was either badly sprained or out of joint. He instructed one of his men to fetch some hot water and a towel.

As he was carefully wrapping Charlie’s knee with the towel, he continued his questioning. How’d you happen to leave the Douglas trail and find your way here? Hall demanded.

Charlie explained that his clumsy horse had stumbled off the trail. Course, he added, with some embarrassment, my having a drink or two might’ve played a part. Hall listened; his face revealed nothing. Why’d you leave Texas anyway? he went on.

“Why,” said Charlie with a sly smile, “the people of Texas tried to get me to stay. They even followed me to the Red River on the Indian Territory border, they were so determined that I stay.” The image of Charlie’s being chased to the state line by a posse got some sympathetic laughs from the outlaws.

But Hall had already dealt with three detectives, and while they surely weren’t cowboys like this stranger, they’d told some good stories, too. He still had his doubts. He dispatched two men with a lantern to examine the spot where Charlie claimed his horse had taken a tumble. Another two rode off to the Howards’ saloon to see if that part of Charlie’s story was also true.

While they waited for the men to return, Hall applied a dose of liniment to Charlie’s damaged leg and then proceeded to roll several bandages so tightly around the knee that now walking was truly impossible. And all the time, Charlie’s heart was racing. No one had removed his big Colt from the holster on his hip, but he didn’t relish the prospect of shooting it out with a pack of Texas outlaws. His only hope if things got scaly would be to nail Hall with his first bullet and then maybe the rest would lose their will. But looking at those hard faces, Charlie knew it was a hope that had no real chance of playing out. He’d just have to kill as many of them as he could before they got around to shooting him dead.

At about ten o’clock the boys returned. They’d found the tracks where Charlie’s horse had gone over the edge. Lucky he hadn’t broke his neck, they told Hall. The Howards had confirmed Charlie’s story, too. Judging by the foolish manner in which Charlie had ridden off through the woods, the saloonkeeper said, he was not at all surprised to hear about the busted leg. Hell, he’d expected to learn that the drunken cowboy had gotten himself killed.

Hall listened to the two reports, and then invited Charlie to stay until his leg healed. “If you’re a detective,” he said without a hint of threat in his voice, “you won’t be able to keep from showing it. Course, then we’ll just take you out to a tree and hang you up by the neck.”

ACCUSTOMED TO cowboy ways, Charlie settled without difficulty into the gang’s workday routine. A few of the boys, though, couldn’t put their suspicions aside. Johnny Franklin, a bowlegged Texan who had escaped from the Huntsville penitentiary, was the worst. He was always giving Charlie hard looks, waving his pistol in Charlie’s face, and warning how he wouldn’t think twice about shooting a scheming detective right between the eyes. Hall’s tact was to play foxy. He had a habit of feeling Charlie out, trying to find out more about him. Since Charlie had spent a large part of his life riding the Texas plains, he didn’t need to invent too much.

Truth was, Charlie loved the subterfuge. He’d always displayed a disregard for danger; it went hand in hand with a natural confidence that bordered on being downright cocky. He felt that living in close quarters with a gang of killers required nothing more than some careful playacting. Not that he wasn’t cautious; he slept with his Colt under his pillow and a belt loaded with bullets slung across one shoulder, beneath his long johns. But he was never agitated. And being the cowboy detective, going undercover to infiltrate a gang of outlaws—well, Charlie relished his new calling. Making his way each day on the Keeline Ranch through the tight situations gave him a measure of prideful satisfaction.

Yet there was still no sign of Bill McCoy, the fugitive who had gunned down the deputy. When the gang rode the forty miles into Fort Laramie for a ranch dance, Charlie told ’em his bum leg ruled out any possibility of his dragging a gal around the floor. Instead he bought a bottle of whiskey and checked into a hotel.

He spent most of the night writing letters. The first was his report to the Denver office. He explained that he’d infiltrated the gang and had won their confidence. But he would need more time, months perhaps, to get them to reveal the whereabouts of McCoy. Anyways, the ranch was crawling with fugitives with prices on their heads. The agency could collect some sizable reward money by the time this case was completed. He asked the superintendent to authorize an extended operation, saying he should write back care of the hotel in Fort Laramie. Charlie promised he’d return in two weeks to receive the reply.

After sealing the letter, he found a new piece of paper and began, “My dearest Mamie.” His wife’s absence was the single unsatisfactory part of his new life. It pierced him, affecting him in a way he not anticipated. Bullet wounds, he knew from experience, stung like the dickens, but they had always healed. This pain lingered, flashing through his mind without warning and leaving him suddenly unsettled. Nights, though, were the worst. He also felt guilty about leaving Mamie on her own in Denver to care for their little daughter. A husband had a responsibility to be with his family. He ached to give his child bride and daughter a hug. And so he composed a letter that even as he wrote the words left him feeling that he was doing something reckless. Perhaps it was even a mistake. But he didn’t consider putting down his pen. If the consequences proved dangerous, he told himself, he and his big Colt would just have to put things right.

He instructed Mamie to take the train to Fort Laramie, along with Viola, and check into the hotel. She was to pretend that she was a widow. He’d be coming by in two weeks to the day. Either he’d have received instructions to return to Denver and they’d make the trip back home together or Mamie and the baby could stay in Fort Laramie for a spell and he’d figure out a way to visit.

With a pang of anticipation, he sealed the letter to his wife. Early the next morning, while the gang was still sleeping off its drunk, he went down to the post office and mailed the two letters. Careful to favor his supposedly crippled left leg, he walked slowly back to the hotel and his fellow outlaws. Soon as everyone sobered up, they’d be riding back to the ranch. Charlie’s mind, though, was focused on Denver and a woman with long black hair, which she brushed with a diligent one hundred strokes each night before she went to bed. It would be a long two weeks.

IT WAS little Viola who nearly gave him away. She had been instructed not to call Charlie “Papa,” but the child kept making the mistake. No one in Fort Laramie thought it strange that Charlie would be courting the pretty young widow, but when Viola called him “Papa” in the hotel dining room, a few eyebrows were raised. “Girl’s rushing things a bit, I reckon,” Charlie exclaimed with a good-natured grin, and that seemed to amuse everyone, as well as put an end to any questions.